Stormborn
by henseonos
Summary: Melisandre, a Red Priestess of R'hllor, finds her Lord's light in Daenerys Targaryen, Mother of Dragons and fire made flesh. / AU: S7E2, F/F, RedDragon.
1. Chapter I

**A/N:** I'm afraid I've been thinking lately—a dangerous pastime, I know—but I had an idea that I just can't get out of my head. Behold the first chapter of that idea. You might be thinking that this sounds exactly like the beginning of the Season 7 / Episode 2 "Stormborn" of _Game of Thrones_ , and you'd be right. Things will change as the idea develops. By you clicking on this story, you've consented to read a rated "M" fic that will inevitably contain F/F. Oh, and you're also agreeing to be cool with spoilers for _Game of Thrones_ if you haven't already seen it. As a final note, it'd be really awesome if you kept any hate to yourself and only offered praise for what you like and constructive criticism for what you don't if you decide to leave a review.

 **Disclaimer** **:** I am not in any way associated with George R. R. Martin, HBO, etc. The characters and storylines found within this fic belong to their creator, and no copyright infringement is intended.

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 **STORMBORN**

 _I.  
_

It began as any tale of war and love and woe might, on a thunderous night where the gods hailed their fury down upon the world. Dragonstone sat atop its ancient seat in the earth, besieged by the elements on all sides. Waves that might swallow a man grown, would that they could, crashed against its sandy shores. A wicked wind kicked up a thick mist as it howled over the groaning sea. Torrential rains pelted the very stones of the keep, making their own mark upon centuries of erosion. The sky was alight with blue fire, but it mattered little. Come what may, the seat of House Targaryen would yet stand upon the morrow.

"On a night like this, you came into the world," Tyrion Lannister recalled, sliding his hands over the weathered stone of the table before him. Across its surface sat all the great houses in their seven kingdoms. A speared sun, the sigil of House Martell, shone proudly from the south, and the lions of Lannister growled menacingly in the east. Other figurines sat scattered across the board like pockmarks, but his eyes lingered for just a moment too long upon the three golden beasts.

"I remember that storm," came another soft voice—Lord Varys, the Spider and once-Master of Whisperers. He, too, stood with his soft, powdered hands stretched out across the realm, facing the balcony where the rain pushed a cold breeze into the room. "All the dogs in King's Landing howled through the night."

"I wish _I_ could remember it," spoke the woman there, outlined against the night as the darkness turned her rounded edges hard. Daenerys Targaryen turned then to face them, loose ringlets of silver hair shining in the candlelight about her shoulders. "I always thought this would be a homecoming." Her footsteps echoed around the war room of her ancestral home, bouncing from one stone to another. "Doesn't feel like home…" She came to rest before the great table, eyes downcast to gaze upon the Seven Kingdoms—hers by birthright.

"We won't stay on Dragonstone for long," Tyrion promised, his expression as sympathetic as his words were encouraging.

"Good."

It was a curt reply, to be sure, and spoken in the harsh tone of an impatient ruler in place of a forlorn friend, but what more could he expect? To be so close to victory and, yet, so far… Well, he could only imagine. It was only a moment after his lips had pursed into a hard, thin line that he turned from her and lifted his goblet. A hearty sip of the finest Dornish wine seemed to serve as a far better response than anything he had left to offer.

Daenerys watched his retreating form from the farthest corner of her vision. "Not so many lions," she commented, turning her attention back to the tabletop. Her hands moved to its surface, drawn by the unspoken promise of supremacy it offered.

"Cersei controls fewer than half the Seven Kingdoms. The lords of Westeros despise her." Varys spoke with the confidence not of a eunuch but of a man in greater power and title than he held. His plump fingers dug into the rough stone across from her, but he met the gaze of his queen as evenly as he dared. "Even before your arrival, they plotted against her. Now—"

A sculpted brow quirked in response, but her expression otherwise remained neutral. "They cry out for their true queen?" A mocking lilt entered her tone. "They drink secret toasts to my health?" She withdrew her hands from the map and wrung them before her. "People used to tell my brother that sort of thing, and he was _stupid_ enough to believe them." Her pace was slow as she rounded the table, inching ever closer to the Spider.

It was in seeming disinterest that she lifted her own sigil off the board and inspected the figurine, a dragon with its wings stretched in flight. "If Viserys had three dragons and an army at his back, he'd have invaded King's Landing already."

Tyrion's eyes narrowed upon his queen, watching her as she studied her mark upon the map. "Conquering Westeros would be easy for you, but you're not here to be queen of the ashes," spoke the dwarf, his hands then clasped firmly behind his back. It was a reminder, gentle but firm. Sacking the capitol with three dragons grown and an army of foreigners would only serve to distance her further from the throne she sought and the loyalty that came with it.

At this, she looked up from the carved figure before putting it back in its rightful place and squaring her jaw. "No."

"We can take the Seven Kingdoms without turning it into a slaughterhouse." Of this, Tyrion was sure. Daenerys possessed the qualities of a true queen, one that the people of the realm deserved and would support, but he could not be sure if patience sat among them. "If the great houses support your claim against Cersei, the game is won."

Her hands resumed their wringing.

"With the Tyrell army and the Dornish on our side, we have powerful allies in the south."

As if a memory long forgotten had been sparked by his words, the queen's eyes snapped up from the table, and she turned to face Varys fully. "I never properly thanked you for that."

Taken aback, the eunuch was silent for a moment before withdrawing his hands from the great table and responding. "They joined our side, My Queen, because they believe in you." His words were cool and measured, but a flicker of worry flashed across his features like the sky's blue fire across the horizon.

"You served my father, didn't you, Lord Varys?"

There was yet another pause before he answered. "I did."

"—and then you served the man who overthrew him."

She now had the full attention of everyone in the room. Even Tyrion had sense enough to look worried, his wine long forgotten as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other and tracked her movement. A dwarf he might be, but blind he was not. Even a fool could guess his queen's intentions, and what might happen next, but an unwitting spider? He would send a silent prayer up for the man to any god that might be willing to listen.

"I had a choice, Your Grace: serve Robert Baratheon or face the headman's axe."

"—but you didn't serve him long." Her eyes remained cold, but a small, knowing smile pulled at the corners of her lips. She had him beneath the heel of her boot. "You turned against him."

Again, taken aback, Varys let out a quiet hiss of air. Spittle dotted his lower lips and his heart thumped painfully in his chest, but still he met her gaze. "Robert was an improvement on your father, to be sure. There have been few rulers in history as cruel as the Mad King." If he had struck a nerve, her countenance did not betray it, nor did it waver from the smirk she wore. "Robert was neither mad nor cruel. He simply had no interest in being king."

He hadn't even had the time to draw a breath before she spoke once more.

"So, you took it upon yourself to find a better one."

The accusation hung in the air for a long moment before Tyrion thought to interject. "Your Grace…" he began, eyes lowered to one jewel or another fixed to the dark material of her garment. When she turned to him, arms crossed at the wrist over her navel almost expectantly, he found that he could not meet her gaze as the Spider had. "When I was ready to drink myself into a small coffin, Lord Varys told me about a queen in the east who—"

"Before I came to power, you favored my brother." She rounded back on the eunuch like a hound after its bone, fury boiling beneath the surface of her skin now. She had no interest in hearing the rest of her advisor's tale, lest it end in her wrath turned upon those who did not yet deserve it. "All your spies, your little birds, did they tell you Viserys was cruel, stupid, and weak?" She watched as his eyes dipped down, breaking from her unspoken challenge. "Would those qualities have made for a good king in your learned opinion?"

The Spider seized the opportunity to speak, his brows furrowed and skin creased in a strange mixture of concern and indignation. "Until your marriage to Khal Drogo, Your Grace, I knew nothing about you, save your existence and that you were said to be beautiful."

Daenerys lifted her chin, refusing to relent under the charm of his sweet, panicked words. She had never been fond of flattery. "So, you and your friends traded me like a prized horse to the Dothraki."

"—which you turned to your advantage."

If he had thought that the repetition of what was known would break her, he had judged her poorly. She would not be deterred. Still, the question burned in her throat like the flames of her dragons. It begged to be released into the space between them, to do whatever damage it may. "Who gave the order to kill me?"

Tyrion's eyes darted from his queen to the eunuch and back again. There was a small part of him that trusted Varys, for the things he had done. That part of him yearned to put an end to this mummer's farce. However, there was a far greater part of him that still distrusted the Spider, even more so for the things he had done, and that part of him longed to see the queen get the answers she sought.

"King Robert," Varys answered, having the good sense to look at least nearly ashamed.

Like a prowling lion of Lannister stalking its prey, she moved closer to him. "Who hired the assassins?" Closer, still, she came. "Who sent word to Essos to murder Daenerys Targaryen?"

"Your Grace…" he interrupted, nodding his bald head in equal parts fear and respect. "I did what had to be done to—"

"—to keep yourself alive."

Once more, Tyrion found his voice. For the moment, it seemed as if the soft spot he held for the Spider, his personal savior, had won out. "Lord Varys has proven himself a loyal servant." As he drew breath to continue on in the other's defense, the queen then rounded on him.

"Proven himself loyal?" she snapped, her glare as sharp as dragonglass as it bore into him. "Quite the opposite." She fixed him under her gaze for only a moment longer, almost as if daring him to again speak out against her, before turning back to her prey. "If he dislikes one monarch, he conspires to crown the next one. What kind of a servant is that?"

Though he held no love for or any likeness to dragons, her words sparked a fire in the Spider's belly. "The kind the realm needs." His words were as firm as he dared, his eyes now narrowed into a glare of his own. His anger, like hers, boiled just beneath the surface, but a cold sweat still prickled across his powdered skin as he spoke. "Incompetence should not be rewarded with blind loyalty. As long as I have my eyes, I'll use them."

Daenerys stood still as the stone beneath her feet, studying him as if he was the most curious wonder she had seen in all her years. Blank was her expression, but her silence was permission for him to continue.

"I wasn't born into a great house. I came from nothing. I was sold as a slave and carved up as an offering." He did not break their gaze a second time, as he had found his courage. Eunuchs had often been compared to cravens, some even saying that they belonged to two sides of the same coin or that they had been cut from the same cloth, but none would have _dared_ in that moment. For in that moment, he looked into the eyes of the dragon queen unflinchingly.

"When I was a child, I lived in alleys, gutters, abandoned houses. You wish to know where my true loyalties lie? Not with any king or queen, but with the people. The people who suffer under despots and prosper under just rule. The people whose hearts you aim to win.

"If you demand blind allegiance, I respect your wishes. Grey Worm can behead me, or your dragons can devour me, but if you let me live, I will serve you well. I will dedicate myself to seeing you on the Iron Throne because I _choose_ you—because I know the people have no better chance than you."

A long pause stretched between them, filling the room with silence and a thick, cloying tension. In that moment, the sound of whipping winds and unrelenting rainfall served as her response to him. Then she broke the silence.

"Swear this to me, Varys." Her head canted ever-so-slightly to the side as she continued to study him, deciding his fate. "If you ever think I'm failing the people, you won't conspire behind my back. You'll look me in the eye as you have done today, and you'll _tell_ me how I'm failing them."

Concern still creased his brow, but he gave a small nod of acquiescence regardless. "I swear it, My Queen," he offered, remembering then to bow his head in the respect one should offer their ruler, earned or otherwise. In the farthest corner of his vision, he saw Tyrion release the breath he had been holding and nod his approval.

Their collective relief was short-lived, however, as the queen once more resumed her prowling. Soon they stood breast-to-breast, her mask of cool wrath still fixed firmly in its place. "—and I swear this: if you _ever_ betray me, I'll burn you alive."

The sunken apple of his throat bobbed as he swallowed and his bowels finally unclenched. He offered her a polite smile and another dip of his head. Beneath his fine velvet smock, his shoulders lifted about his ears as he shrugged. "I would expect nothing less from the Mother of Dragons."

For the first time since she had begun her assault, she relented and released the Spider from beneath her heel. He had won her respect for the moment, and she showed him as much with the small, genuine smile that curved her pink lips. This battle was over, and neither had lost. He had won his life and she his promise of loyalty—for whatever that was worth.

"Forgive me, My Queen," came a fourth voice, one she had almost forgotten was present. Grey Worm stepped forward from the far corner of the room, posture as tight and stern as befitted the captain of the Unsullied. "A red priestess from Asshai has come to see you."

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 **A/N:** Well, that's it for Chapter I. Chapter II will come later this week.

 _R.I.P. Stormageddon, Dark Lord of All. You will be missed, my tiny hamster overlord._


	2. Chapter II

_II._

The halls of the once-great keep were shrouded in darkness, each twist and turn of it's blackened stone feeling more foreign to her than the last. It was only in moments like these, as she made her way to the throne room, that she allowed herself to long for the familiarity she had known in Meereen. There, from the top of her pyramid, she had heard the people cry out for her—their _mhysa_. Their chants had been as intoxicating as a siren's song, but in this place, the only sounds that met her were the echoes of the mismatched footfalls of her escort.

Daenerys allowed the wretched organ beneath her breast one last painful thump. She would always ache for the love her people across the Narrow Sea had once shown her. However, there was some small comfort in the knowledge that, in time, she would know that favor once more. Though the newest hearts she aimed to win felt as strange and foreign to her as the halls of Dragonstone, it seemed as if the first of them had sought her out.

As she stood before the heavy, guarded doors, she again felt like the meek scrap of a girl she had been under Viserys thumb, still afraid to wake the dragon. The memory was enough to make her forget, even if only for a moment, that _she_ was the dragon. However, when the doors parted before her, and she was granted entrance to the seat of her ancestral home, she forced herself to swallow the feeling. With her Unsullied and her advisors at her back, the Red Woman would know only of her strength.

" _Queen Daenerys, I was a slave once, bought and sold, scourged and branded. It is an honor to meet the Breaker of Chains._ "

Though the words, spoken in High Valyrian, roused a smile from the dragon queen's countenance, she allowed herself a moment's pause before responding. The woman before her, the red priestess from Asshai, stood tall and unwavering. Adorned in the scarlet garments of her order, she seemed to shine like a garnet amid the dreary stone. However, there was something about her that seemed almost weary, as if the fire inside of her had died out long ago. Daenerys could see it in the way she held herself and how the polite smile she offered never quite seemed to reach her eyes.

" _The Red Priests helped bring peace to Meereen,_ " she answered, her hands clasped firmly before her as she bowed her head in greeting. " _You are very welcome here._ " The dragon queen's mother tongue came from her with ease. There was something almost musical about it, and it felt pleasant against her lips. The harsh, guttural tones of the common tongue had always left her with a bitter taste in her mouth. " _What is your name?_ "

" _I am called Melisandre_."

Again, Daenerys felt her head dip in greeting. In the mere seconds she had been in this woman's company—with her red hair, red robes, and a voice like fine silk—the dragon queen's interest had been piqued. Though she would never breathe life into the admission, the Mother of Dragons found herself yearning to know more of her as she yearned for the love of her people. Though it mattered little, she silently mused that perhaps _that_ was the true power of the red priestess. The smile she wore, still lifting the corners of her mouth, faltered only slightly when Varys spoke from her side.

"She once served another who wanted the Iron Throne." There was anger in his voice, a thinly veiled urgency to be rid of her. When the Red Woman turned her eyes on him, he felt the thrum of his heart quicken to hold her gaze. "It didn't end well for Stannis Baratheon, did it?"

At this, Melisandre's features dropped. She gazed into the empty space at her feet as if the secret to undoing what she had done was written in the stone. "No, it didn't."

Daenerys felt a surge of anger twist her stomach into knots. Had she not bore witness to the way the Spider's words robbed the Red Woman of any of her lord's light left in her eyes, she might have even heeded his unspoken warning and sent her away. She had held no love for the Usurper's brother or the entirety of House Baratheon, to be sure, but the eunuch was once again testing her patience. He would know the full power of her fury by the morrow if ever again he dared speak to a guest of the queen in so crass a manner.

"You chose an auspicious day to arrive at Dragonstone," she began, her eyes never leaving the Red Woman as her head turned slightly in the Spider's direction. "We've just decided to _pardon_ those who once served the wrong king." It was in equal parts a reprimand and a reminder of their time spent in the Chamber of the Painted Table.

In surrender, he bowed low at the waist. His bald, powdered scalp shone in the candlelight for a long moment before he rose again. Though the admonishment prompted high color to rise to his cheeks, he would not challenge the wishes of his queen so openly—even if she chose to break bread with witches, swines, and thieves.

"The Lord of Light doesn't have many followers in Westeros, does he?" the queen asked coolly, pushing the anger she had felt aside so that she might continue her audience with the red priestess. She looked expectantly to the other woman with her head canted slightly and one brow quirked. Though she had heard tales and teachings of R'hllor, the Lord of Light and God of Flame and Shadow, she had left her idle wonderings of him in Essos.

Would that she could, Melisandre might have offered her gratitude aloud, but she dared not leave the queen's question unanswered. Instead, she trusted that it shone beneath the glassy surface of her gaze as she redirected it to the Mother of Dragons. "Not yet," she conceded, "but even those who don't worship the Lord can serve his cause."

At that, Daenerys furrowed her brow in thought. Though her expression retained the neutral indifference of a monarch, the Red Woman's words only served to stoke the flame of curiosity that had risen in her. When she spoke next, her voice was softer somehow, almost reverent. "What does your lord expect from me?"

" _The Long Night is coming. Only the prince who was promised can bring the dawn._ "

As smooth as a serpent, the lips of the dragon queen twisted into a smirk. Amusement threatened to break the stoic mask of her countenance, and it was only by the grace of the Seven that she managed to smother out the quiet laughter that burned in her throat. "'The prince who was promised will bring the dawn.'" She clasped her hands together at her navel and theatrically dipped her head in apology. "I'm afraid I'm not a prince."

"Your Grace," sounded the soft voice of her most trusted advisor who had, until now, remained silent. "Forgive me, but your translation is not _quite_ accurate." Missandei stepped forward then, into the light that cast flickering shadows across her bronze skin. "That noun has no gender in High Valyrian, so the proper translation for that prophecy would be: 'The prince or princess who was promised will bring the dawn.'"

From his place at her side, Tyrion felt the words slither past his lips before he could think better of them or to stop them. "Doesn't really roll off the tongue, does it?"

"No, but _I_ like it better." Daenerys fixed her advisors with her cool gaze, first one and then the other, before returning her attention fully to the Red Woman. "—and you believe this prophecy refers to me?"

Melisandre filled her lungs with a quiet inhale before responding. Her eyes, unable then to meet the dragon queen's, stared unblinkingly at the point where the dark grey material of the other's collar obscured porcelain skin. She studied the flash of her throat as she breathed for only a moment longer before offering a small shake of her head. "Prophecies are...dangerous things. I believe you have a role to play, as does another—the King in the North, Jon Snow."

At this, Tyrion felt the color drain from his face. He narrowed his gaze upon the red priestess, almost as if daring her to reaffirm what was already known. "Ned Stark's bastard?"

"You know him?"

The dwarf had the good sense to look somewhat concerned as his queen turned towards him, fixing him under her heavy gaze. "I travelled with him to the Wall when he joined the Night's Watch."

"—and why do you think the Lord of Light singled out this Jon Snow?" Varys asked, his voice yet thick with dislike. "—aside from the visions you've seen in the flames, that is."

Melisandre gave pause for a brief moment, eyes flickering between the dwarf, the eunuch, and the dragon queen. When she was certain that she might speak, she lifted her chin and let her words ring out clearly around the throne room. "As Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, he allowed the wildlings south of the Wall to protect them from grave danger. As King in the North, he has united those wildlings with the Northern houses so together they may face their common enemy."

"He sounds like quite a man," Daenerys offered, unsure of how she was supposed to react to the Red Woman singing another false king's praises. If the uncertainty had been evident across her features, the priestess gave no indication or acknowledgement of it. For that, at least, she was grateful.

"Summon Jon Snow," Melisandre instructed. It was offered in such a strange mixture of blatant desperation and assuredness that it left Daenerys feeling inclined to do exactly that. "Let him stand before you and tell you the things that have happened to him, the things that he has seen with his own eyes."

"I can't speak to prophecies," Tyrion interjected, stepping forward so that his queen might better gaze down upon him, "or _visions_ in the flames, but I like Jon Snow, and I trusted him." He stood unflinchingly as she turned to him once more, offering her the gentle smile that oftentimes went unknown to the world about him. "—and I am an excellent judge of character." When the silver-haired girl returned his smile, he took it as permission to continue.

"If he does rule the North, he would make a valuable ally. The Lannisters executed his father and conspired to murder his brother. Jon Snow has even more reason to hate Cersei than you do."

The Mother of Dragons was silent for a long moment, eyes downcast as she weighed her options. Though she held the words of the youngest lion of Lannister in high regard, it was ultimately her fascination with the Red Woman that led her to acquiescence.

"Very well. Send a raven north. Tell Jon Snow that his queen invites him to come to Dragonstone...and bend the knee."


End file.
